In The Shadow Of Our Fathers
by bluedana
Summary: Our fathers were two of the most obsessed people on the planet. Is it any wonder we turned out the way we did? Maybe the acorn should fall a little farther from the tree, for its own good. Note: Rated Kplus, but there are a couple of naughty words.


**Author's Note**: There's conflicting canon on whether Henry Archer died when Jonathan was 12 (Cold Station 12) or an adult (Similitude, Daedalus). I went with the later date.

**Disclaimer**: _**Star Trek: Enterprise**_ and all its characters are the property of Paramount.

* * *

**In The Shadow Of Our Fathers, by bluedana**

February 3, 2156

Dani's message had been sitting in the mail queue for nine days by the time Enterprise meandered its way back into range of Echo Three. The ship and crew had been subject to a four week quarantine after visiting Laiolo Prime, a warp-capable planet in the Garahgh System. Diplomatic courtesy had led Captain Jonathan Archer to invite the newly appointed Ambassador to Earth and his aides to tour Enterprise and join him for dinner in the Captain's Mess. Chef had produced a filling, if not entirely satisfying, meal from the main staple of the Laiolo-ya diet, a thick, oatmeal-like gruel with both the consistency and flavor of kindergarten paste.

Unfortunately for Archer, that meal would prove to be the high point of the Laiolo-ya visit, because the next day, Doctor Phlox had discovered that the Laiolo-ya-tan had brought aboard a virus that had gone undetected by Enterprise's bio-scans. For twenty-seven days, Enterprise had gracefully orbited Laiolo Prime's largest moon, waiting out the ridiculously long incubation period while the ship's complement of eighty-three beings dreaded, examined, and reported every cough and twinge in the fear that they had contracted this possibly fatal alien disease.

On the twenty-eighth day, the Prime Medical Minister pronounced what Dr. Phlox had been insisting all along: that the Laiolo-ya virus was not transmittable to humans, Vulcans, Denobulans, or even canines. With a clean bill of health, the stir crazy crew finally went on their way.

Archer let himself into his dark quarters, exhausted, irritated, and hungry. Because of the unexpected month-long detour, Enterprise was behind schedule for maintenance, and stores were down to the bare minimum – one more meal of re-sequenced protein shaped like fish sticks, and the crew would surely mutiny.

He pried off his boots and headed straight for the shower. The tension headache he had refused to tell Phlox about throbbed behind his eyes. Standing beneath the pounding spray, he braced his hands on the shower wall and took several deep breaths. This diplomatic mission had not been a _total_ disaster, he guessed – at least nobody had opened fire on anyone else. He would take his victories where he could find them.

The blue glow of the computer provided the only light in the room when he emerged, towel-wrapped, from the steamy bathroom. The archaic little mailbox icon in the lower left-hand corner of the screen winked at him. He contemplated ignoring it until morning. It was probably Phlox's final medical report, detailing Enterprise's four week non-event. Or perhaps it was another one of T'Pol's "diplomatic suggestions," read, "ways you might avoid provoking a medical crisis in the future by following Vulcan first contact protocols," which would only send his blood pressure skyrocketing.

In the end, though, he realized he'd never be able to sleep without at least knowing what the message was about. With an exasperated groan, he slid into the desk chair and tapped the icon.

The face that appeared made him rear back in shock as his stomach seemed to drop to his toes. With a tentative hand, he tapped the still photo, and the video came to life.

"Hello, Jon," came Danica Erickson's low voice. She sat with her hands folded on the desk before her, her gaze unflinching. Her black hair, curly the last time he'd seen her, was pulled severely back in a bun or ponytail. It made her look old and tired. Characteristically, she wore no makeup; to Archer's eye, she could have used some. "I . . . ," she looked away, and Archer thought she might start crying. After a slight pause, she seemed to gather herself, and continued. "Dad died this morning," she said steadily, her mouth pulling down at the corners. "I thought . . . I thought you should know." She paused again, as if contemplating saying more, but then her hand reached out abruptly and stopped the recording.

Archer looked at the timestamp of the message and did a fast mental calculation. She'd sent this transmission twelve days ago; it would have taken four days just to bounce from Echo Two to Echo Three. And then Enterprise had still been out of range for a week.

She must think that he didn't care. After the way they had left things the last time they'd seen each other, how could she think otherwise?

He crawled into bed, not even bothering to pull on his pajama bottoms. Emory was dead; he wasn't ready to deal with that yet. Truth was, he didn't know how he felt about the man now. But Dani . . . .

It would take Enterprise six days at a reasonable speed to reach Jupiter Station for her check-up, and Archer another two or three days to arrange transport to Earth. Maybe by then he would have thought of what he could possibly say to his little sister.

* * *

July 10, 2134 

"Who's that guy with your little sister?" Jon asked Quinn as they pulled into the driveway in Quinn's sporty little car. Jon knew Quinn had only bought the car for effect, since both young men had a hell of a time unfolding their lanky bodies out of it.

Quinn glanced over at the sixteen-year old girl half hidden behind the tall oak tree at the side of the house. Her back was pressed against the tree, and a slightly older boy was standing dangerously close to her. "I don't know, probably that punk she's been seeing."

Jon peered over the top of his aviator sunglasses. "I can only see _one_ of his hands," he observed.

His friend snorted as he slammed the gear shift into neutral. "Hasn't been that long since you were seventeen, Jon. You know where his other hand is."

"You're right, I do," Jon said darkly, climbing out of the car. He could hear Quinn laughing carelessly behind him.

The girl looked around as Jon approached, and confirmed all of Jon's fears when she quickly put two steps between herself and the boy. "Hey, Jon," she greeted nervously.

"Hey, Dani," he answered, and waited.

With a small sigh, Dani nodded toward the boy. "Jon, this is Ivan." Ivan managed a sneer, but no acknowledgement. Jon disliked him instantly.

Up close, Jon loomed over the shorter boy, who was clearly neither very quick nor very smart, as he left his fingers entwined in the shoulder strap of Dani's dress.

"You might want to move your hand," Jon suggested.

Of the two available courses of action, Ivan chose exactly the wrong one. "You might want to bugger off. What are you, her father?" Since Dani was a dark, chocolate brown, and Jon was not, this was highly unlikely.

"No, I'm not old enough to be her father," Jon pointed out reasonably. "More like a big brother, which means I'd be more than happy to kick your ass for you a couple times."

Jon stared at the young man pleasantly until the silence grew awkward. Finally, Ivan cleared his throat and said, "Well, I'll see you later, Dani," in a voice that clearly indicated that she'd better find herself another date for the upcoming weekend.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Dani turned on Jon. "What are you _doing_, Jon?" she demanded.

Jon dropped the fake smile. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

"He was _admiring_ my _dress_!"

Jon shook his head, both grateful for and a little scared of her naïveté. "Right."

Dani heaved a mighty, irritated sigh. "At this rate, I'm going to be the oldest living virgin in the solar system!"

Jon shrugged amiably. "Okay."

Dani favored him with a withering look, then turned on her heel and stomped into the sprawling old farmhouse. Jon removed his sunglasses and followed.

Arva Erickson looked up from her knitting, smiling cheerfully. "Hello, Jon. I see you've had a little chat with Ivan the Terrible. Must have gone well; Dani looks fit to be tied."

"He's a real charmer, that one," Jon replied, bending down to kiss Dani's mother on her cheek. "I'm afraid I may have scared him off."

"One can only hope," Arva replied tartly. "I was thinking of resorting to arsenic or cyanide to get rid of the little rodent, myself." She checked the watch on her slim wrist. "Your mom's upstairs taking a rest. Your dad and Emory are out back in the lab, naturally. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Where's Quinn?"

"Lab, I think," Jon said. "If you don't mind, I've got some correspondence to catch up on. I'll be back in a bit, help you put everything out." He ducked into Emory's study, a warm, book-filled room on the first floor. He paused a moment to run his fingers along the spines of the volumes lining the shelves. Although his desk contained several high-powered research computers, Emory believed wholeheartedly in the value of holding a novel or a book of poetry in one's hands, not squinting at it on a screen.

Jon eyed the house computer with trepidation. It was on, as it always was, and, after a moment, he keyed in his personal ID. There were seven messages waiting in the mailbox for him. His heart froze when he saw the return address of the third one.

Forty minutes later, he was still sitting in stunned surprise, staring out the giant picture window. Arva poked her head in the study doorway. "Jon? You were going to help me serve up dinner." Her brown eyes grew concerned. "Are you okay? You look a little . . . You didn't get bad news, did you?"

"No, ma'am," Jon said, shaking off his shock and rising. "Just . . . unexpected." He put his arm around her shoulders, stooping a little to do so, and ushered her into the massive dining room.

"Jon!" Henry Archer greeted his son enthusiastically, moving slowly but purposefully into the room. He was not using his cane today. The combination of fresh, clear West Virginia air and the exercise of picking apart someone else's experiment seemed to give him new energy. "Emory was just showing me the specs on Phase Two of the teleporter. He might be able to turn a man into a fly soon."

Emory scowled at his old friend. "It's a _transporter_, not a teleporter. And it's no more cheesy science fiction than your faster-than-light engine, Henry. There is a limit to how fast matter can travel, but not how far, and no one's ever going to travel at warp five."

Sally Archer rolled her eyes at this long-standing, utterly predictable feud, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. As long as they had known each other, Henry and Emory had argued over the future of man's long distance travel to the stars. Henry Archer was convinced that hope lay in faster ships, that the warp speed achieved more than half a century before by that crazy drunk Zefram Cochrane was a floor, not a ceiling. Emory Erickson believed just as firmly that travel through the galaxy would only be achieved when man and matter could be disassembled, compressed into a stream, and safely sent in a "beam" to a predetermined destination.

Sally broke into the mostly good-natured bickering with a pointed, "If you gentlemen persist, I'm going to have to call in the Vulcan Ambassador to mediate." As expected, the men turned twin frowns on her, united in their disdain for the skeptical naysayers of the scientific world.

"I'll thank you not to swear in my house, Sally," Emory grumbled, taking his seat at the head of the table. "'Vulcan' is a four-letter word around here."

Everyone chuckled, except for Dani, who flounced into the room and threw herself down into her accustomed seat next to Quinn. She shot a venomous glare Jon's way; he winked at her, just to irritate her, and continued helping Arva serve up the fresh trout entrée.

Midway through the meal, Henry took a sip of his sparkling water and commented, "The Team is looking forward to your arrival, Jon. We'll find a way to put that pie in the sky astrophysics degree of yours to good use."

Jon ducked his head toward his plate awkwardly. He had been hoping to speak to his dad after this visit was over, maybe avoid the pyrotechnics this time. "Well, I, uh, I've been doing some thinking about that, Dad."

Henry Archer clearly recognized that expression, the you're-about-to-be-disappointed-in-me look. He glanced at Sally, whose own face told him to drop this for now and talk to his son about it another time, in private. But everybody knew that all of his hopes rested on this boy, no, this twenty-two year old man, who had already taken a five-year detour from the Project to pursue a ridiculous interest. "Oh, you have."

Jon steeled himself. He knew how this discussion would go, could map it out with one hundred per cent certainty. They'd had a battle the size of an atomic detonation five years ago when Jon had announced that he'd applied to the Honors Program in Astronomy and Physics at Stanford, rather than its Engineering Program, and had been accepted, one of only twenty-five candidates for the combined bachelor's and master's degrees. He and nine others had completed it, this past June. And now, as soon as Henry learned that Jon would not be joining "The Team," the dedicated group of men and women working on the Warp Five Project, he would go nuclear.

"I've joined UESPA-Starfleet. I got my acceptance letter today," Jon said quietly. "I start flight school in six weeks."

"_Damn_ it, Jon," Henry said, just as softly.

"Henry," Sally warned her husband in a low voice.

Jon went on, trying to explain. "I know you wanted me to work on the Project, Dad, but, really, theoretical engineering is not my thing. Besides, once the engine's built, even before, you'll need qualified test pilots to try it out. The only guys flying out of the System are colonists and Boomers, and they don't come back; their ships are too slow. In two years' time, when I graduate, the Project will probably have a prototype ready, and I want to be the one who breaks the Warp Two barrier using the engine that you design."

He glanced around the table. Henry had placed his napkin down beside his plate, and was staring at his son with a mixture of anger and disapproval. Sally had her eyes glued to her husband's face, as she usually did, concerned as always about his fragile health. Emory and Quinn wore identical expressions of disbelief, the kind that those who work on the theoretical level reserve for those whose goals are more practical. Arva offered a calm, encouraging smile; she was the only person at the table who had known about Jon's plans before this moment. Lastly, Jon's eyes alighted on Dani. Gone was the adolescent petulance of a thwarted sixteen year old. In its place flashed fierce determination, sympathy, and a bit of pride.

For a moment, Jon thought that maybe he'd been wrong, that his dad would gracefully accept his decision. That moment died a quick, cruel death as Henry said slowly, "I had _hoped_ that my only son would aspire to something more than being a jet jockey. That he would use that extraordinary mind and desire to _make_ the future, not just ride on its coattails. Anybody can fly a ship. You were meant to change the course of history, Jon. And you're selling yourself short."

In that instant, Jon realized that Henry Archer would never again look at him without a tinge of disappointment. His driven inventor-engineer father would never understand his dream to see the wonders of space, comets and supernovae and newborn planets, not on the pages of a textbook, but with his naked eye.

He fixed his gaze on the exquisitely prepared fish, now smashed to pieces on his plate, and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. His mouth curved up in a rueful, dead smile, and he shook his head slightly. "And here I was, thinking that I was reaching for the stars," he said faintly, laying his own napkin down. He picked up his still half-full dish and took it into the kitchen. Then he let himself out the back door and headed toward the stream that trickled behind the house.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there, tearing up stalks of grass and tossing them into the swiftly running water, long enough to get his emotions back under control, anyway, before he heard the footsteps behind him. It wouldn't be his mother; she'd have her hands full talking Henry down off of his ledge, reminding him anxiously that too much stress could bring on a relapse. Emory would have lost interest by now, and taken Quinn back to the lab to get in one more test. Arva was too graceful to insert herself into Archer family business, which left . . .

"Hey," Dani said, sitting down on the grass next to him.

"Sorry about that," Jon said, drawing his knees up and hanging his hands between them. "I should have waited until the visit was over before dropping that bombshell on Dad. Didn't mean for you guys to get caught in the fallout."

"What fallout, Uncle Henry's practically over it already. He and Daddy are drinking bourbon on the back porch." Dani smoothed her dress over her knees, heedless of the grass stains being ground into the yellow fabric. She tipped her head back and let the breeze lift her hair. "You really planning on traveling outside the solar system?"

Jon shot her a quick, sideways look. "Yeah, and not on one of those one way trip deals, either, like the Terra Nova colony. Dad's engine is going to make it possible to explore farther than we can even see with the most powerful telescope." He pointed toward the sky, even though it was still daylight and no stars were visible yet. "Vulcan's sun, Eridani, is sixteen light years away. Takes us years to get there. When Dad's engine is finished, we'll be able to do that in a matter of _weeks_. There's no limit to how far mankind – humankind – can go."

"If the Vulcans ever take their thumb off the scale," Dani added.

"Well, they can't keep us in the dark forever," Jon replied. "Remember, we discovered warp drive all by ourselves, without any help from them at all. We'll get to warp five despite them, no matter what Ambassador Elf thinks."

Dani giggled. "I want his job." At Jon's look, she clarified, "Being an Ambassador. I want to meet new species and learn all about them. I sure as hell wouldn't be all judgmental and condescending, no matter how different they were. Sometimes I look at that Soval guy and think, 'If you think we're so worthless, why are you here?' I mean, it's not like we're any threat to them; we can barely get past Neptune before dying of old age. I don't know why they don't just go home. I heard it's fifty degrees in the shade up there – no wonder they walk around looking all dried out and pinched."

Jon grinned. "When I have my own ship, that'll be my first mission, taking you to Vulcan to show them how real Ambassadors act. Deal, Ambassador Erickson?"

Dani stuck out her hand. "Deal, Admiral Archer."

* * *

February 4, 2156 

The Crew's Mess was silent and barely lit, not surprising, since it was, by ship's time, only a quarter past three in the morning. Archer sat, nursing a cup of coffee, peering out the porthole, which was reassuringly full of stars meandering by at impulse. _Not like the emptiness of the Node_, Archer thought. The coffee was cold, had been for several minutes. Archer turned the black mug in his hands, around and around, absently.

The door swished open, and measured footsteps crossed the floor: solid, slow, a little tentative. Must be Trip, friend enough not to want to intrude on the captain's privacy. After a brief hesitation across the large room, with the sound of cold milk splashing into a tall glass, Trip's reflection appeared in the plexi-steel.

Archer glanced up, shrugged, and gestured toward the table's companion chair, inviting Trip to sit with the shorthand born of over a decade of friendship. Trip slid into the seat and slouched, as comfortable on a starship watching unfamiliar stars as in somebody's den taking in a game. Comfort extended to silence; off the Bridge, outside of chaotic Engineering, it was just Jon and Trip.

After a few minutes, Trip cleared his throat and said quietly, "You seen the news dump?"

"Got through about three weeks' worth before my brain overloaded," Archer replied.

Trip took a small sip of milk. "There was a thing, about Emory Erickson," he sighed.

"Emory's dead," Archer said, his voice bleak. At Trip's surprised look, he added, "There was a message from Dani at Echo. From almost two weeks ago."

"I didn't know you were in contact with her."

Archer shook his head. "I haven't seen her since the inquest. She said she thought I should know."

"I'm sorry, Cap'n. I know how much Emory meant to you."

Archer placed his cup down on the table, and stood, pent up energy needing an outlet. "It's like losing my father all over again, except this time, I – I wasn't there, and we never got a chance to . . . make things right between us. I didn't say a word in his defense at the hearing. I just couldn't –"

"There _was_ no defense," Trip replied harshly. "He deceived all of us, committed a fraud on Starfleet. A crewman _died_ because he hid his real agenda. He almost destroyed this ship, and almost got you killed, Cap'n."

Archer turned his back, reliving those two terrible days, remembering Trip's uncharacteristic near-insubordination, his own rare public display of temper. He had discovered that his idol had feet of clay, and sadly, Trip had discovered the same thing about his captain. And in the end, they had not even been able to save Quinn, only bring his deteriorating body back from transporter limbo to die in his father's arms. Archer had lost the rest of his family that day, and nearly his best friend, as well.

The cold coffee hadn't regained any of its flavor in the past hour. Archer sipped it anyway. "Quinn was going to be my best man," he murmured pensively.

Trip choked on his milk. "He – what? When was the wedding?"

Archer grimaced, remembering the humiliation. "I was gonna get married, right after flight school. Quinn helped me pick out the ring and everything, agreed to stand up with me if I ever got up the nerve to propose to her. I don't think he thought I'd go through with it. But I did."

"And?" Trip prompted, never having heard this story before. He leaned in, obviously amazed that there could ever be a woman Archer would put before his Starfleet career. His accent got just a bit thicker, signaling his astonishment. "You mean to tell me you had a wife that you've never mentioned?"

"She turned me down. Cold. Said she didn't want to be a 'Starfleet widow.' Can't say as I blame her, now that I think about it."

Trip scowled. "'A Starfleet widow?' What the hell's that supposed to mean? Was she worried she'd be left alone all the time, or that space was too dangerous?"

Archer shrugged and made a gesture that encompassed both the Mess and the space outside the porthole. "Either way, she was right."

* * *

October 27, 2136 

_Dear Jon,_

_Oops, I guess I should find a more diplomatic way to start this letter, huh? Quinn told me about your bad news. Sorry to hear it, I really am. Actually, I'm not, because __as I'm sure you'll remember__, I never thought Miss Don't-Call-Me-Maggie-My-Name-Is-__Margaret__ Mullen was worth your time. Not that you'd ever listen to me._

_But seriously, Jon, listen to me now. I'm sorry you're hurt, but don't think for a minute that what you're doing isn't worth it. Don't laugh, but every night I look up at the sky and think, Wow, one day Jon's going to be up there, exploring. And when you're a great starship captain, and I'm your trusted Ambassador from Earth, then Miss Call-Me-Margaret is going to regret the stupid, stupid decision she just made._

_Okay, I've got to go study for my ridiculously irrelevant Medieval History exam, the only thing standing between me and my ski weekend. I'll see you next month at Thanksgiving dinner, and you can tell me all about Basic Training. _

_I love you, Jon. Mom says, "Hi," and "Be careful," and "Bring a big appetite." _

_Dani._

Jon returned the letter to his archive and tucked the tiny computer into his zippered breast pocket. It was time to strap in for the final leg of the ride, testing the accelerating and decelerating capabilities of the DX-05. His CO for this test flight, Captain Omar Sarasota, began the two-minute countdown. "Everything looking good back there, Ensign?"

"All systems go," Jon replied, eyeing four screens at once.

Commander Jim Beam, called "Whiskey" for obvious reasons, signaled clear and started the burn. There were twelve seconds of blessed silence, before everything went to hell.

"Report, Commander," Sarasota barked over the shrieking alarm.

"Lost One and Three, Two's failing." Beam sounded remarkably calm, which kept Jon's anxiety from spiraling into panic. The commander signaled Base, located safely on Earth, roughly five hundred thousand kilometers away on the other side of the moon.

"DX-oh-five, we're reading two dark engines – make that three," came the voice of Mission Control, in a typically flat, disinterested tone. The flatter the tone, Jon knew, the more directions the engineers on the ground were flying in. The only time a pilot could relax was when Mission Control laughed on mic, which was rarer than a Vulcan smile. "You've got a critical underburn; switch to Backup Number One."

Jon was already punching in the code. He glanced at the screens again and swore softly. "Backup's not engaging, sir. Trying Number Two."

None of the men spoke. They each knew that if Backup Sequence Number Two didn't work, they were literally on their own. Earth's most sophisticated computer, located in Houston, Texas (the headquarters of space travel for almost two centuries) could not control the craft remotely, and the tiny, three-man vessel would have to be brought into Earth's orbit manually. From this distance, that would be virtually impossible. The ship wasn't built for maneuverability; as it approached Earth, Sarasota, at the helm, would have to fight inertia to avoid overshooting. With only one working engine, he could not control the thrust, and the ship would hurtle toward Earth's gravity well without the means to control deceleration.

The screen on Jon's right flashed; Backup Sequence Number Two had failed as well. "Get the book," Captain Sarasota ordered Beam.

Using the ship's independent computer and the soft-covered printed manual, the pilots checked every system on the ship and then began working out the best course to achieve safe orbit. "Can't believe we're checking the frickin' owner's manual for this tin can," muttered Beam, and Sarasota admonished him gently, "Don't badmouth the ship until we're safely on the ground."

Jon sent his calculations to Beam, who checked them before sending them on to Sarasota. All three were in agreement on the plotted course. They orally transmitted the course to Mission Control, which concurred. They would steer closely around the moon, a tricky proposition, given all of the satellite traffic surrounding the lunar mass. Decelerate too fast, and the one remaining engine could stall like an outdated ground car. Hesitate, and they might end up shooting toward the sun.

Jon could feel a trickle of sweat roll down his spine, underneath his bulky space suit. He felt uncomfortably hot, and his mouth was dry. He cast a glance toward Sarasota; the man looked as if he were simply tacking a sailboat on a calm lake. "Steady, Ensign," the captain said placidly.

"Sir," Jon managed.

"DX-oh-five, we're reading a hot spot next to Engine Three," Mission Control said. "Check the seal."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Beam grumbled, unbuckling his seat harness. "Frickin' Murphy's Law up here." He keyed the voice box. "Roger that, Mission Control, checking Three." It took only four steps to reach the gauge, and ten seconds for Beam to start swearing for real. "Captain, the hull around Three is buckling. I can see the cracks already."

"Ensign, take the stick." Sarasota passed a surprised Jon without waiting for a response, and elbowed his way into the tiny aft space. "We can patch it from the inside, but the stress will bust it wide open in a matter of minutes. ETA to orbit, Ensign?"

Jon checked the readout. "Ten minutes, forty one seconds."

"I doubt we have that much time. Increase speed."

"To?" Jon asked.

"Figure it out," the captain directed, and turned his attention to keeping the craft from splintering apart.

Jon did the fastest calculation of his life, and adjusted the ship's speed before he could second guess himself. "ETA, seven minutes, ten seconds."

After a moment, Beam passed him a bulky survival pack. "We're going to come in hot, Ensign. Gear up."

Jon kept an eye on the all-important gauges as he donned the heavy duty parachute kit. Chances were excellent that they would either burn up as they hit atmosphere or crash like a meteorite into one of Earth's vast oceans. From the tenor of Beam's conversations with Mission Control, he knew that things looked pretty grim from the ground. Well, they would either succeed today or they would die. No point in worrying about it, he thought grimly.

The helm began to buck as the ship approached its home planet. Sarasota remained aft, patching fissures as quickly as they appeared. Beam monitored the ship's speed, trying to keep the one over-worked engine from puttering out. Jon kept his gaze fixed on the navigation screen, holding the joystick in a white knuckled grip, not deviating from that solid white guide line.

"Gentlemen, it looks like we're going to have to bail," the captain said calmly. "We've missed the window. I'll patch this as long as I can, but eventually, she's going to break apart."

"Captain, let me do that," Beam protested as Jon opened his mouth to do the same.

"Use the time wisely, gentlemen," Sarasota said firmly, turning back to his work, decision made.

The last several minutes inside the ship were tense and silent. _She was right,_ Jon thought. _She would have been a widow._ He checked his parachute straps, then eyeballed Beam's. Beam double-checked Sarasota's. Mission Control droned recommendations, its tone getting more and more dispassionate, never letting on in words how doomed the mission really was.

Before Mission Control could advise them further, the ship began to shudder apart. Three heavily suited human beings burst out of the vessel, entering freefall at the ultimate upper limit of Earth's atmosphere. Shrapnel hurtled past them from the exploding craft. Jon instinctively flinched; pieces of metal and burnt insulation shot past him as he plummeted, out of control, toward earth. He saw Beam being buffeted by the wind, falling crazily like him.

Jon was no adrenaline junkie, but he had done his share of parachuting. It was required training for any pilot, as ejection from a malfunctioning craft was always a possibility. He'd just never bailed at this extreme altitude before. He tried to keep focused on the ground, judging the right moment to pull the cord. His parachute kit was supposed to signal him at the optimal time, but the way this mission had gone, he expected that fail-safe, too, to break down. To his relief, he finally heard the high pitched warning tone inside his helmet, a steady piercing whine which soon turned into a urgent beeping. He pulled the cord, barely hanging on to consciousness, and registered the sharp yank as the parachute engaged and arrested the freefall.

Below him, the ground lay green and brown. At least he wouldn't die in the ocean, he mused. There was a chance they'd find his remains, enough to bury beside his father, anyway. He tried to prepare his body for impact: relaxed, focused.

The ground rushed up to meet him before he was quite ready, the shock reverberating first up his legs, then his spine. He fell straight back, arms flung outward, unable to break his fall. His vision shattered. He blinked, and realized that it was only his spider-webbed faceplate. His breathing sounded loud and harsh in the enclosed dome of his helmet. He was hyperventilating and couldn't seem to stop.

A few yards away, another space-suited body hit the ground with a dull thud. He couldn't turn his head to see who it was.

Black shapes appeared in the sky above him, circling. _Valkyries_, he thought, then winced. Not Valkyries, buzzards. Or maybe vultures. He supposed it really didn't matter in the long run.

His last thought was, _Sorry, Dad_, before the blackness claimed him. He was unconscious by the time the spiraling rescue helicopters landed.

Before he opened his eyes, he was aware of a strange sensation, a soft pressure, front and back. He couldn't feel his arms or legs, which scared him, and couldn't move his head at all, which frightened him more. He cracked his eyes open, and it took him a moment to focus. His sharp exhale caused a face to swim into view.

"Hey, Jon," Danica said quietly, her face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "Welcome back."

His mouth creaked open, but he could not force any sound out. A drinking straw poked at the corner of his mouth, and he sipped a tiny drop of cool water. "Take it easy, Jon. You've been in and out of the waking world for two days."

He tried to shift his legs, but they didn't cooperate. "Wh– why can't I move?" he whispered.

There was a scrape of chair legs against tile. "You're in a Stryker-Kibaya Frame. It keeps your spine immobile." Danica directed his gaze to the convex round mirror above him. Jon's eyes widened in horror. From what he could see reflected, he was suspended between two wide pieces of white canvas which were stretched on a steel frame. He could see the outline of his body under the fabric, spread-eagled. His head was held in a brace. He was stuck like a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread.

Dani leaned back into his field of vision. "Luckily for you, Dr. Helen Kibaya refined the Stryker Frame about fifty years ago. Before that, they would have drilled two giant screws into your skull to hold your head still." She smiled, and he could read the relief in her face. "And trust me, you seriously don't need any more holes in your head."

"Am I paralyzed?" Jon got out next, with tremendous effort.

Dani reached out and smoothed the hair off of his forehead, careful not to disturb the laser restraints at Jon's temples. "They don't know yet. They're doing some tests. If they come back okay, you could be out of here in a couple of days."

"And if not?"

"Well, you _are_ at the Christopher Reeve Institute for Spinal Regeneration, so you couldn't be in better hands." She busied herself with placing the cup of water carefully on a side table. When she came back, her optimism had returned. "You were really lucky, Jon."

Jon closed his eyes, forcing out the next question. "Sarasota. Beam."

Dani's response was cut off by Sally Archer's arrival. Jon let his mother rain relieved kisses over his face; he had little choice, as he couldn't move. He would have let her have her moment of relief anyway; the woman had buried her beloved Henry not six months prior. From what he could gather out of her careful conversation, the tests revealed that the trauma to his spine was temporary; in layman's terms, his system had been "stunned" by his barely controlled landing. A few days, and he'd be released from the hospital, although he would be on light duty for about two weeks.

"I'm fine," Jon groaned. "I want out of here."

Dani snorted. "You just fell off the moon, Jon. Take a day off."

He managed a grin in her general direction, then sobered abruptly. She had never answered his query. "What about Sarasota and Beam? How are they?"

Sally stroked his face gently. "Captain Sarasota is still in critical condition, Jon. He's at the Royal Hospital in London." She paused. "Commander Beam didn't make it. He was killed on impact." He would learn later that "Whiskey" Beam had landed head-first on the hard-packed earth, like a rag-doll thrown from the hand of an angry child. Knocked unconscious by a piece of the devastated ship, he had never engaged his parachute at all. Later still, Jon would encounter the rumors, never substantiated nor disproved, that the Vulcan observers had known that the DX-05 could not have withstood the stress of the test, and that they had declined to share that information.

Jon didn't hear anything his mother said after that, or take in any of the information about his own condition from the doctors. For the rest of the day and into the night, he played and replayed those final fifteen minutes of the mission, trying to determine what he could have done differently. He barely noticed the many times Dani tenderly blotted the tears that he could not raise his own hand to wipe.

* * *

February 11, 2156 

The ship was buzzing with anticipation as Enterprise approached Jupiter Station. Most of the crew had had their bags packed the minute Hoshi's voice had announced over the general comm. that they were passing the planetoid Pluto. They were professionals, though, and overall ship's efficiency had only slipped four point three percent, according to T'Pol, who kept track of such things.

Archer couldn't blame them. As intriguing and wonderful as open space was, there was nothing that could compare with that first glimpse of Sol, hanging faint and yellow in the view screen: home.

Commander T'Pol rang the chime of the Ready Room and stepped in at the captain's invitation with a quiet, "Good morning, Captain." She carried – he counted quickly – seven PADDs, endless repair requisitions and leave orders. He sighed, and decided to make a little small talk before his busy morning began.

"So," he mused, eyeing the first PADD she passed him, Trip's Engineering wish list, "I suppose you must be looking forward to some authentic home cooking at the Vulcan Compound, huh?"

"Chef does an adequate job approximating Vulcan cuisine," she replied, with a small smile. "His skill has increased over the years."

"Still, it'll be nice to have the real thing, I would guess," Archer responded, holding out his hand for the next report.

T'Pol seemed a bit edgy to his eye; she actually fidgeted. "I am not certain that I will be staying in Sausalito. My application to stay at the Compound has not yet been approved."

Archer almost missed that, with his attention fixed on the requisition in his hand. When her words penetrated, his head snapped up. "I'm sorry, did you say they might not let you stay at the Compound?"

T'Pol held his gaze steadily, where a human might have shrugged. "I am no longer part of the Vulcan Diplomatic Service. I am required to apply for guest housing at the Compound as any other Vulcan visiting Earth must."

Archer made an effort to close his mouth. Logical, he supposed, but damned cold, if you asked him. Which T'Pol didn't, and wouldn't. He dropped his eyes to the quartermaster's requisition and said, almost idly, "I have an apartment in San Francisco. You're welcome to stay there." Before she could refuse, he went on, "I actually wouldn't be there – I have some traveling to do. No point in leaving it empty and you staying in some hotel somewhere." He turned to place the PADD on his desk. "Really."

T'Pol stood at parade rest. "I have made plans with Commander Tucker to hire a small yacht and sail up the eastern coast of South America. He seemed eager to take me snorkeling. For seven days."

"Oh," Archer said, trying to sound nonchalant. "That ought to be fun." He felt a little pride at how neutral his voice sounded to his own ears.

"It will not," T'Pol said flatly, and then fidgeted some more. Archer put the PADD down and focused completely on his First Officer, a little alarmed. Before he could comment, she went on, visibly getting herself under control. "As you know, Vulcan has very little standing water, certainly no oceans. I find the prospect of being on a vessel for a week, surrounded by water, somewhat . . . disconcerting."

"So, why don't you just tell Trip you don't want to go sailing?" Archer asked, uncomfortable about interfering in this . . . whatever the hell this was between Trip and T'Pol.

"That would not be accurate," T'Pol said.

Archer closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a while since he'd had to decrypt a woman's code. He was clearly out of practice. He tried again. "You know," he said casually, "I could mention to Commander Tucker a couple of other possible sightseeing things you could do while you're on leave. Stuff you could do on land for, say, four or five of those days?"

She exhaled deeply for the first time since she'd entered the room. "I would not want to disappoint him."

Archer snorted. "Trip's flexible – he'll come up with something. Besides, sitting on a yacht somewhere in the middle of the ocean watching you turn green wouldn't be any kind of fun." She narrowed her eyes at him a fraction, and he realized what he'd said. "No offense," he muttered. To escape her gaze, he picked up Trip's work order once more and scrolled down. "Trip's gonna be stuck on board Enterprise for at least the first couple of days, going through every inch of the ship with the Jupiter Station engineers. Offer's still open to use my place until he's free."

T'Pol studied him for a moment, so he kept his face blank and open. "I accept," she finally said. "Thank you, Captain."

"No problem," he murmured, picking up the next report. "Glad I could help." He didn't look up until she had placed the rest of the pile on the corner of his desk and quietly left the room. Maybe one day his First and Second Officers would figure out the key to working out their relationship, to getting past the devastating grief that at once knit them together and tore them apart. Starfleet regulations be damned, he'd like to see them happy after all they'd lost – together or separately.

But, then again, he was no expert on relationships, his or anyone else's.

* * *

May 31, 2138 

"Boy, you weren't kidding, were you," Dani laughed, "you really can't dance!"

Jon could feel his face turning beet red. She was right, though. He couldn't understand it. He was both athletic and graceful in the water, commanding the pool in any water polo match. But get him on a dance floor, and his brain and limbs acted as if they'd never met each other before. He'd thought that a slow number would be his best bet – how hard could shuffling his feet around in a circle be? _Damned hard,_ he thought, as Dani corrected his course once again. "Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it, Jon," Dani advised. "The important thing is that you look delicious in your dress blues. Not that I'm allowed to say that anymore," she added, flashing a dimple.

He tipped his head to look at her. "You sure you want to marry this guy?"

Dani tossed her head, making her short tulle veil shiver. "A little late for that question, don't you think? You're supposed to express your concerns before the ceremony's done, or else, you know, forever hold your peace." She pressed her hand at the small of his back, surreptitiously taking over the task of leading.

Jon smiled. "I don't have any 'concerns,' really, except – well, I just don't see you as an artist's wife, waiting patiently in the wings while your husband gets all the adoration. I thought you wanted to get out there, explore. I mean, are you planning on going back to school?"

Dani studied the antique diamond and ruby wedding band on her left hand, now resting on Jon's shoulder. "It's not like I'm going to be hanging out, baking brownies. I can still get my degree. I'm just taking a little break. As for exploring, well, Niccolo doesn't think it's a good idea for me to go with Daddy and Quinn out to the Barrens. I don't blame him, really; who knows how long those sub-quantum tests will take?"

To Jon, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. He'd met her fiancé, now husband, a week before, and had been unimpressed by the arrogant young man. Niccolo Barzini, a famous and photogenic modern sculptor, had come across as the worst kind of entitled jerk, dismissive of scientific research in general and contemptuous of Emory's life's work in particular. Already, it seemed to Jon, Dani's loyalties were torn between her father and her new husband. He didn't expect it would go well from here.

"The Barrens aren't all that far away," he commented. "Couldn't you and, uh, Niccolo use the trip as a kind of honeymoon?"

"Oh, Nicci doesn't fly, ever," Dani said quickly.

"Doesn't fly? You mean, he's never been off-Earth." That was reasonable to Jon; while travel to lunar colonies like New Berlin was becoming common, lots of people never saw the need to leave the planet.

Dani smirked. "No, doesn't fly as in, if the wheels don't touch the ground, he isn't interested." She tripped on her gown as Jon stopped abruptly. A quick tug on his sleeve had them moving, at least theoretically, to the music again.

"Are you kidding me?"

"You know that 'for better, for worse,' part? I just figure this falls into the not-so-good category." The new bride leveled a gaze at Jon. "He has many, many other things going in his favor."

"I'm sure," Jon responded noncommittally. He knew one thing: Emory couldn't stand his newly minted son-in-law. The old man was seldom friendly, never warm or fuzzy, but with Niccolo Barzini, Emory resembled a junkyard dog. Now Jon understood why a little better. Emory had no patience with the anti-science set. To Emory, the advancement of the human race depended on scientific exploration. It was why he had worked alongside the Vulcan scientists he loathed all these years, why he had let his marriage to Arva shrivel on the vine for lack of nourishment and attention. He lived and breathed science, and spent every waking minute of every day trying to perfect his transporter theory. He was as driven as Henry had been about his engine, more so, even, since Henry had been compelled to take long periods of rest from time to time because of his health.

Quinn was just as obsessed, to Jon's eye, and the two Ericksons fed off one another's energy. Dani was different, though. Her dreams encompassed more than a working transporter. She longed for the day when she could visit a new world, learn a new culture. She knew enough about her father's project to be conversant, even helpful, but it was clear that she would never follow in Emory's brilliant footsteps like Quinn.

But Jon doubted she'd ever be content with her feet firmly nailed to Earth, either.

"Maybe you should take a minute to figure out what _you_ want, instead of giving in to Niccolo and Emory all the time," Jon offered.

Dani narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about? I know what I want and I go for it."

"No," Jon replied gently, "you don't. I know you'll be a good little wife, because you've always been a good daughter. You've never gone after anything you wanted."

"And you have? You've spent the past two years apologizing to the universe for going to flight school instead of joining the Warp Five Project. And now, you're doing your damnedest to get yourself killed in one prototype ship after another. Being a crash test dummy is not going to bring Uncle Henry back."

Jon was about to fire back when he realized that the two of them had stopped dancing in the middle of the floor, and that they were the center of attention. He clamped his mouth shut and led the bride off the dance floor toward the outside balcony, under the eyes of most of the scientific community. Dani stepped double time to keep up with his long strides, propelled by his firm grip just above her elbow.

Outside, in relative privacy, Jon let her have it. "I'm a test pilot, Dani, that is what I do. My job is to learn everything there is to know about warp flight, so that one day, when my father's engine is ready to fly, there'll be a ship for it to go in. It's dangerous, yeah, but I don't take stupid risks. We've got to develop a ship capable of sustaining warp five without falling to pieces, otherwise, what the hell is the _point_?"

"When you were a kid, the only thing that ever mattered to you was traveling in open space." Dani yanked her arm out of his grip. "It was all Aunt Sally could do to talk you out of signing on to some cargo freighter or other. You wanted to see everything the galaxy had to offer. And how far have you gotten?" Jon was silent and still. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You're not doing what _you_ want to do, either, Jon. You're not so different from me."

Stung, Jon stooped down to glare at her. "My father should have lived to see his engine fly, but he didn't. I'm here, he's not. And if I have to spend my life making sure that his dream gets realized, then so be it. If that doesn't happen, if we don't figure out how to make it work, then there's no chance at all of my being an explorer, is there?" Jon made an effort to take his emotions down a notch or two. He continued more calmly. "The difference between us, Dani, is that I'm working toward my dream."

"Really," Dani drawled. "And what am I doing?"

Jon took a deep breath. "You're settling. You always have. Instead of making plans to go 'out there,' you've just married a man who can't even take the training wheels off. That's settling."

"That's your opinion. Quinn doesn't mind him."

Jon pinned her with his direct green gaze. "If I know Quinn, and I do, he hasn't said anything about old Niccolo. He probably hasn't noticed him at all. Because if it isn't about that transporter, and it isn't about Quinn, it doesn't exist, does it?" He tipped her chin up gently with his index finger. "This Niccolo guy isn't what you're looking for."

Dani's mouth turned down at the corners, a sure sign that he hadn't told her anything she didn't already know. "Well, _hell_," she muttered, punching him ineffectually on his forearm, her ring glittering in the moonlight. "Why didn't you say anything before I married the guy?"

Jon shrugged. "You didn't ask."

She turned her back to him, looking out at the stars dotting the clear black sky. He crowded her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on the top of her head. "What am I gonna do now?" she asked in a small voice.

He smiled against her elaborate hair knot. "You want my advice? Fly anyway."

* * *

February 17, 2156 

_Fly anyway._ Archer scoffed quietly to himself, staring out at the Black. Earth wasn't visible from this side of the transport. He'd see it soon enough.

"Captain?" T'Pol spoke just loudly enough to get his attention. She faced him, seated with her legs tucked underneath her, in their luxurious compartment, private accommodations for the seven hour trip to their destination. Archer had requested two general boarding tickets, not really caring about amenities for what was, for him, a very short trip. But when he'd stepped aboard, accompanied by his Vulcan First Officer, the transport captain had practically prostrated himself before the two space heroes. Their general tickets had been discarded, and they had found themselves ensconced in a suite twice the size of Archer's quarters on Enterprise. The similarity ended there, though, for while Enterprise was comfortably utilitarian, the transport's suite was awash in drapery and decadent pillows and complimentary refreshments.

Archer shifted his position on the couch. "Hm? Did you say something, T'Pol?"

"You sounded as if you were laughing, Captain," T'Pol said, raising an eyebrow. "I was interested in what you might have found amusing."

There was a note of derision in his tone as he answered, "Oh, just that I spent a lot of time in this area of space when I was fresh out of flight school, being what Dani called 'a crash test dummy.'"

Her eyebrow climbed higher. "Dani," she prompted.

"Danica. Erickson. I've, uh, been thinking about her a fair bit, lately."

T'Pol unfolded her legs and sat up straight. "Commander Tucker informed me of the death of Emory Erickson," she said quietly. "I grieve with thee."

Archer felt his throat close up, helpless in the face of solemn Vulcan sympathy. He stood and strode to the refreshment table, his back to her, picking up a sandwich he didn't want.

After a moment, T'Pol observed, "You said you wouldn't be staying at your apartment. What are your plans for your shore leave, if I may ask?"

Archer glanced over his shoulder, gesturing at the beagle seemingly asleep on the rug next to T'Pol's foot. "I have some people I need to see, and then Porthos and I are going to visit Emory's ex-wife, Arva. I haven't seen her in a . . . well, in a dog's age," he finished sheepishly, unable to resist the pun. "A little fresh air and exercise will do us both some good."

"I understand that sailing and snorkeling provide such benefits," T'Pol remarked nonchalantly, and Archer snorted.

"Nice try, Commander," he laughed. "Seriously, I really think you'll like sailing. Trip's a good captain. He won't let anything happen to you." He prepared a cup of herbal tea and walked over to hand it to her. He wasn't trying to be glib; Trip was a proficient enough sailor to make the experience pleasant for her. And Archer was convinced that someone who meditated as much as T'Pol did could not help but be captivated by the calm, open sea, if she gave it a fair chance.

T'Pol took the cup with a murmured thanks, yet another human habit she'd internalized, then asked, "What is a 'crash test dummy?'"

Archer settled himself back into his seat with his forgotten sandwich. "It's what they use to test the safety limits of a manned vehicle," he explained. "They measure how safe a craft is by how much or how little the dummy – or the test pilot – gets smashed up. If you can walk away from a test flight, it's considered a success." He thought of "Whiskey" Beam, killed on impact, and Captain Sarasota, bitterly confined to a wheelchair in a skilled nursing care facility, and, not for the first time, doubted the integrity of that definition of success. "The 'crash test' assumes everything that can go wrong does. Sometimes that happens in a real mission." He separated a thick slice of roast beef from the bread and tossed it to Porthos, who, awakened by the scent of meat, snapped it out of mid-air.

"Humans were often impetuous in their desire to test new technology," T'Pol commented. It was a testament to their years of friendship that she was able to make that statement without a touch of disdain, and Archer was able to hear it without getting defensive. He decided not to mention the lingering suspicions about the Vulcans' knowledge during the DX-05 test.

Instead, he replied, "Sometimes you've just gotta try something to see if it'll work. Put theory into practice." He crumbled the bread between his fingers. "If you're right – and very, very lucky – you walk away in one piece. If you're not, well." He hitched his shoulder up in a shrug. "I was usually lucky."

* * *

December 1, 2139 

The hotel ballroom was packed with dignitaries, scientists, and journalists, all observing a respectful silence as the black clad caterers drifted around the room with trays of crudités. Arva graciously worked the room, greeting acquaintances, embracing friends, accepting condolences with a tight smile. She moved smoothly, practiced now, having had four weeks to get used to the fact that her son was dead. For four weeks she had waited, not for a body to be brought home for burial, there would never be that, but for her former husband to return, beaten and drawn, and the official, public mourning to begin for one of Starfleet's premier scientists, Quinn Erickson, the victim of a freak accident in a literally barren area of space. The shock had rippled up the chain of command, both civilian government and Starfleet, given that her son's research had been commissioned and paid for by the space exploration agency.

Jon's eye wandered the room. There was Emory, waving away an offered plate of food, irritable as always. Jon couldn't tell if the old man was just grieving in his own way, or if the siren song of the laboratory was already calling him. The memorial service had been at Arva's insistence, to allow the community of friends and family some closure after Quinn's death millions of kilometers away. Right now, Emory seemed to be testily schooling some un-diplomatic reporter on the importance of the transporter device that had taken Quinn's life.

The crowd parted, but just barely, allowing Dani to float through, insubstantial as a wraith, drawn to the rising disturbance. Jon saw Emory look up, saw his face harden, and knew that the coming collision would not be pretty. He put his glass down hurriedly and began to make his way over.

The voices hit him while he was still several meters away, Emory's now familiar emphatic fuss. ". . .Greatest scientific advance of our generation! We're building space stations so far out that the cost of ferrying out the people and equipment to run them guarantees that they'll be money-losing propositions."

"And you think disassembling and reassembling those people at ten different transporter stations to get them from point A to point B is a better, more cost effective solution?" came a skeptical voice.

"We're starting small," Emory answered, "but eventually, you'll be able to transport between points light-years apart!" This was met with groans of incredulity.

One journalist pushed forward. "Mr. Erickson, how can you be sure that the person who is disassembled at Point A will be the same person who appears at Point B? Won't that second person merely be a copy of the first, a facsimile? And how many times can a person be copied before he—"

"Young lady, do I look like a facsimile to you?" Emory interrupted.

"A-are you saying that you yourself have been, uh, transported?" the reporter asked, disbelievingly.

"Several times," Emory snapped. "What the hell do you people think we were doing out there in the Barrens? Playing tiddlywinks? This isn't some theoretical hogwash, sucking up Starfleet's money in an endless research sinkhole. This is real science – the future is now."

"Is that what your son was doing when he was killed?"

"Dad," Dani broke in, obviously seeing where this was heading, "You really should rest now. It's been a long day for everyone."

"My son," Emory answered, ignoring his daughter and sitting forward in his chair, "wasn't afraid to put our research to the test, because he knew it would work! We revolutionized quantum physics when we moved a block of solid matter ten meters, with a before and after variance of less than zero point zero-zero-zero-one percent. My son spent his life testing and re-testing our theories when all the cowards said it couldn't be done. Yet the so-called leading minds in Starfleet have always been more interested in building the perfect ray-gun or some such nonsense." He shooed Dani's hand away irascibly. "If Starfleet has given us half the support it spends on its weapons program, my son would still be alive. If I weren't surrounded with so many damned cowards – " at this he looked right at Dani, and she froze.

"Dad," she said again, "I . . ."

He stabbed her with his angry stare. "And you. You should have been there. Maybe that test would have turned out differently if you'd been there, checking the data. Another set of eyes might have noticed that malfunction. But you weren't there. Staying on Earth and playing house was more important to you. And what did it get you? Your husband's moved on and your brother is dead."

Even the reporters were silent now, watching in embarrassment as Emory lashed out at his daughter. Jon was so shocked, he couldn't even summon the words to protest the unfairness of Emory's attack. He could only gape as Dani's eyes grew wide with hurt and her face paled. The unspoken words hung in the air, _It should have been you, not Quinn_.

Dani held her father's gaze for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, placed her glass onto the nearest standing tray. She looked around, meeting the pitying eyes of those hovering near, then silently turned away, threading a path through the crowd.

Emory glared at her retreating back – by his posture, completely unrepentant.

Jon remembered a clear summer evening, years ago, when a teenager had put aside her petulance for a moment to sit in silence under a darkening sky with a troubled young man. _I guess we are destined to disappoint our fathers after all_, he thought, and headed toward the door.

There was a bellhop pushing a rack of luggage down the richly appointed corridor when Jon stepped out of the ballroom. "Hi," he said, "did you see a young lady come out of here just a moment ago?"

The bellhop, hands full, gestured toward the elevator with his chin. "She got on the lift, went up."

"Thanks," Jon answered, already on the move toward the front desk to find out Dani's room number.

After several minutes of knocking, he'd all but given up hope that Dani would open the hotel room door. But as he was about to turn away, she appeared, shoes off, drink in her hand. "Can I come in?" Jon asked quietly.

She opened the door wider as her only reply, and turned back into the suite. He looked around the room; there seemed to be only one occupant. "Where's Niccolo?"

"In New Zealand," Dani splashed another inch of scotch into her glass of ice and took a sip. "Where the women 'understand' him better, it appears."

Jon frowned. The marriage had barely even seen its first anniversary, and already the couple were living in opposite hemispheres? "Wait a second. I thought you said Niccolo didn't fly. How the hell did he get to New Zealand?"

Dani laughed bitterly. "Cruise ships are an option I hadn't considered." She drained her glass and poured some more. Jon had been down this road with her twice before; she was an infrequent but cheap drunk – one more glass and he'd be tucking her into the queen sized bed. And a couple hours from now, she'd be hanging her face over the toilet and he'd be sitting on the edge of the tub, passing her a cool, wet washcloth.

He made himself comfortable on the overstuffed wing chair, settling in for a long night.

"I hate him," Dani said with impressive venom.

"Niccolo?"

"Dad." At his surprised expression, she went on, beginning to slur her words just a little. "Oh, the world _loves_ Emory fucking Erickson, but only his family knows the truth. He's a mean little man. A certifiable genius – all the textbooks will have to be rewritten to accommodate the Erickson legacy – but in real life, he's a terrible, terrible person." She paced to the window, becoming a little unsteady on her legs. "Is it any wonder we turned out the way we did? It's funny; I never knew I was an only child until now. Emory only ever had one offspring, and that was Quinn. I'm that girl of dubious scientific pedigree who tagged along behind them."

"That's not true," Jon protested. "Emory loves you. He's just trying to deal with Quinn's death the only way–"

Dani interrupted his platitude. "See, Uncle Henry loved you more than that engine," she held up her thumb and index fingers, about half an inch apart, "at least a little bit more."

Jon's voice was arctic. "That's a shitty thing to say, Danica."

She nodded, over-emphatically. "Yes, but true." Pointing at him with the index finger of the hand holding the glass, she went on. "Our fathers were two of the most obsessed men on this planet. Is it any wonder . . .?" She wrapped her arms around herself as if suddenly cold. The ice remains clinked in the glass.

"Dani, come on, why don't you take your dress off and get into bed? I'll get you some aspirin or something – you're gonna need it soon."

But Dani's inebriated attention had wandered elsewhere. "Jon, you remember that day you got into Starfleet? Did Uncle Henry ever forgive you for not joining the Warp Five Project like he wanted?"

"Sure, he was over it before we got back to San Francisco the next night. He wasn't mad, just disappointed."

"But how do you know he forgave you?"

Jon took a deep breath. She was treading in areas he didn't often visit. In his mind's eye, he could see his father, wasted away to little more than half his normal body weight, unable even to sit up in a wheelchair anymore. There were times he didn't recognize either his son or his wife of thirty years. Other times, he was in such pain he couldn't articulate a full sentence. Clarke's Syndrome in its final stage was an awful way to die.

"It was during his last months, there in the hospital. My mom used to sit with him for hours and hours at a time. My CO was a good guy; he would let me take leave whenever I needed to, a couple hours here and there just to give my mom a break.

"I remember sitting there, talking about my latest flight, some puddle jumper to one of the lunar satellites and back, nothing important, but I'd had the helm, so I thought I was The Man." Jon smiled. "I remember he opened his eyes and asked me if I'd done well. I told him, yeah, that my training officer had said my landing was smooth as a baby's, uh, butt. My dad got this big grin and said, 'Then that's the hand I want at the wheel when my engine flies.' And then he said he was proud of me." Jon gave a soft chuckle. "You know, up until that very minute, I really hadn't been sure."

Dani had begun to tremble, making the ice clink musically in her glass. "I don't think he's ever going to forgive me."

"What are you talking about? Forgive you for what?" Jon asked, truly puzzled.

"For not going out to the Barrens. For not being a brilliant physicist, like Quinn. For not being Quinn. For not dying instead of Quinn." The glass dropped to the carpet with a muffled thump and Jon was on his feet an instant later. Wrapping his arms around her, he could feel the shudders of despair wracking her body. All he could do was make inarticulate shushing noises and hold her close.

She looked up at him then, and before he could speak, she attacked his mouth with hers. Her kiss was desperate and angry, and her hands gripped the back of his head to pull him even closer. He was so stunned, it took a moment of hungry response before he remembered who he was and who she was. He tried to draw back with a protesting groan, but she followed his every move as if on a search and destroy mission. Finally, he took hold of her hands, and tugged them down. "You don't want this," he murmured against her insistent mouth, tasting her tears. "Dani, this isn't what you want."

She went still, then tried to yank away. He held her, fearing she might topple over in her current intoxicated state. "You don't want me either," she said hollowly.

"Dani, I love you," Jon said. "You're the only real family Mom and I have left, you know that? You and Emory and Arva, you're everything to me." He cupped her face in his hands, prompting her to meet his eyes. "I'm glad you didn't go to the Barrens, that you were safe here on Earth. I'm sad about Quinn, but I would never have wanted you to die in his place. Emory's being a bastard; I know that, you know it, and deep down Emory knows it, too. He'll come around."

He saw and felt the wave of dizziness hit her; she swayed and would have fallen had he not had a firm grip on her. He swung her up in his arms and carried her the few steps to the bedroom, placing her gently on top of the spread and covering her with the spare blanket. She was asleep before he finished the maneuver. He glanced at his watch and sighed. More than likely, in another hour she'd be awake and sick as a dog. The bedside chair was too narrow and too short to afford him any kind of comfort. Sighing again, he removed his shoes and lay down next to her. The saddest part of all of this, he mused, was that, at bottom, everything Dani had said about Emory and Quinn was true.

_Is it any wonder_, she had asked, _that we turned out the way we did?_ He closed his eyes. Nope, no wonder at all.

* * *

February 17, 2156 

If he had known there'd be a crowd to greet the transport at the Los Angeles flight terminal, Archer would have picked New York or London as a landing destination. He'd chosen L.A. to minimize the amount of travel Porthos would have to endure to get to their apartment in San Francisco. Accustomed to the smooth power of Enterprise's engines, the little beagle wasn't very fond of ground cars, trains, or commercial shuttles. But now, looking out at approximately a hundred civilians and about a dozen members of the press, Archer wished he'd arranged to land a bit more remotely.

"I think the captain might have radioed ahead about us," he murmured to T'Pol. She leaned forward to peer out the porthole. "Looks like we're going to have to run the gauntlet."

T'Pol gave him the expression she used when he delved too deeply into Earth vernacular. "A purposeful, steady pace might be more effective, Captain." He couldn't tell if she were pulling his leg, so he let it go.

Porthos whined a little as Archer clipped the leash onto his collar; he wasn't used to being restrained. It was less a protection against the dog wandering away – Porthos was very disciplined in that one way – and more a defense against the ever-present kidnap threat. Whether fan or foe, there were enough people who wanted a piece of Enterprise's legend to make Archer nervous in crowds. He stood and threw the strap of his ancient, battered carry-on bag over his shoulder. "Come on, boy, heel. T'Pol, after you."

They were met at the hatch by some obsequious Customs officials, who escorted them quickly through the arrival bureaucracy. As heroes of the Expanse, Captain Jonathan Archer and Commander T'Pol had only to show identification briefly before they were ushered onto Terran soil. Archer paused a moment, breathing in deeply. No other planet he'd ever visited smelled as sweet as this one.

Immediately, they were surrounded by well-wishers, gawkers, fans, and the ever present press corps, all clamoring for attention. Archer pasted a smile on his face, shaking the occasional hand, and trying not to flinch as people patted his back, touched his arms, and generally invaded his personal space. T'Pol, sticking to her plan, kept a 'purposeful, steady pace,' and only a few benighted individuals made any motion to touch her. She ignored them. Archer tuned out the shouted questions from reporters; he wasn't here to make speeches or provide sound bites.

"Captain, is this visit for business or pleasure?"

"Captain Archer! How long will Enterprise be in dock?"

"Can you comment on reports that –"

"There have been rumors that war with –"

"Will you please sign my book, Captain?"

The tiny voice somehow cut through all the clamor, and Archer stopped, looking around for the source. There in front of him stood a tiny girl, maybe ten years old, holding a stylus and a disk reader. She reminded him forcefully of Danica, who never seemed very far from his mind these days, all serious dark eyes and riotously curly brown hair. He brought Porthos to heel and stooped down. T'Pol halted as well, and retraced her steps.

"Hello," Archer said, never comfortable with kids but willing to give it a try, "what have you got there?"

Suddenly shy, the girl handed the disk reader over. Archer read the screen. _Deep Space Explorers: The Story of Enterprise NX-01_. "It's my favorite book," the girl said. "I've read it six times."

"Really. You want to explore space someday?"

The girl nodded. "My dad wants me to be a doctor, like him, but I'm gonna fly starships."

"I bet you will," Archer answered with a lopsided smile, holding his hand out for the stylus. "What's your name?"

"Maya."

Archer thought for a moment, then scrolled to the book's flyleaf page and wrote briefly. He was about to hand the book reader back to her, when he caught T'Pol's eye. Archer turned back to Maya. "Do you know who this lady is?"

Impossibly, Maya became even more awestruck. "That's Commander T'Pol of Vulcan," she answered faintly, using T'Pol's formal title.

"Would you like her autograph, too?"

Now the child couldn't speak at all. She just bobbed her head, staring. The Vulcan accepted the reader and pen, and inscribed a message in graceful Vulcan. Handing it back, T'Pol commented with grave but gentle dignity, "You can look up the translation at your leisure, but would you like to know what it says?"

"Yes, ma'am," Maya whispered.

T'Pol touched the characters on the screen with an elegant fingertip. "It says, 'I look forward to serving with you someday, Maya of Earth.'"

* * *

March 12, 2149 

The insistent beep of the telecom finally penetrated Jon's hard-won sleep. He groggily rolled over on the narrow bed, and fumbled around on the night table. Remembering just in the nick of time that he hadn't put any clothes on before tumbling into his rack, he punched the "audio only" button, growling, "Yeah."

There was a pause. "Jon? It's Dani."

With a groan, Jon pushed himself into a sitting position, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Mmph. Dani," he echoed. "What the hell time is it?"

"It's twelve-thirty in the afternoon here, Jon, nine-thirty in San Francisco. Are you still in bed?" She sounded incredulous.

Jon snapped on the lamp; one of the perks of his rank as captain was that he had an eight-by-six sleeping cubicle all to himself. "I'm not in San Francisco, Dani, I'm doing survival training in Alice Springs. Where it's still half past dark." He cursed the technology that forwarded his calls from home to here.

After a long silence, Dani said, "Shit. You're in Australia."

She sounded so guilty that Jon reached for a shirt, tugged it over his head, and engaged the video. "Hey, it's okay. Part of survival training is, you know, sleep deprivation." He grinned, and after a beat, she smiled back. "So, what's up?"

Dani's voice was almost too bright as she answered, "I just wanted to know that I'll be off-planet for a while. Dad and I are going back out to the Barrens to do some testing."

Alarm bells began to ring in Jon's befuddled head. "I – what the – aren't you supposed to be teaching this semester in Beijing?" She remained silent. "You were so excited about that, Dani." She had talked about nothing else the previous Thanksgiving, when the family, plus Jon and minus Sally, who had died the previous year, had gathered in West Virginia. It had been the first time in years that Jon had seen that level of enthusiasm from Dani, and had begun to hope that she was finally emerging from under Emory's thumb. Even Emory had seemed crankily resigned to the fact that he was losing his research assistant and general handmaiden.

She gave a short, helpless laugh. "You remember that time you fell to earth, Jon? When you ended up at the Reeve Institute?" He just stared at her. "I guess I need one of those Stryker-Kibaya frames. I seem to have misplaced my spine."

"Why do you let him steamroll you into stuff like this?" Jon wanted to know.

Dani's mouth turned down at the corners, matching Jon's frown. "You saw what condition Dad was in last November. He's not getting any better. If I don't go, he won't take care of himself, or worse, he'll use himself as a test subject. Again."

_Or kill another scientist_, was left unspoken. "It's not your fault that Quinn died, Dani, no matter what Emory says. Quinn knew the risks of whatever the hell he was doing. When are you going to stop doing penance for a sin you didn't commit?"

"You don't understand, Jon."

"Yes, I do!" he yelled at her. They both flinched. "You and I are cut from the same cloth," he went on quietly. "We've spent our lives trying so hard to fulfill our fathers' dreams. But that doesn't mean we have to become them. I'm not an engineer like my dad, but Enterprise is the first ship to carry the engine he designed. You don't have to work in Emory's shadow – you're a fantastic teacher. Pass on what you know to the next generation of Emorys."

Dani was silent for so long that Jon began to suspect a signal failure. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, "We might not be back before you launch. I want you to know that I love you very, very much, and I wish you all the best."

"Dani – " Jon started.

"I'll see you out there someday, Jon, I promise."

He saw her reach for the comm. switch. "Dani. . ."

"I promise, Jon." The screen went dark.

* * *

February 18, 2156 

Archer unlocked the door and handed T'Pol the key card. The apartment smelled as if it has just been cleaned, which it had. The housekeeping service Archer had used for nearly ten years was accustomed to mobilizing at a moment's notice to air out the sealed apartment and fill the pantry and refrigerator in anticipation of Archer's brief and sudden shore leaves. This time he had added two unusual shopping requests: lots of candles, and no meat products. The little flutter of trepidation – what unflattering conclusions might T'Pol come to once she saw his personal living quarters – was easily squelched as he realized that his off-duty home, professionally decorated and maintained, reflected as little about him as his quarters on board Enterprise did. She wouldn't be uncovering any secrets here.

Porthos set off to reacquaint himself with every square inch of the place, nose to the floor, as Archer brought in both his and T'Pol's bags.

"I am capable of carrying those," T'Pol said.

"Yes, I know." Archer deposited his carry-all inside the front door, and hers in the bedroom next to the immaculately made bed. "Let me show you around."

She raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _The place isn't big enough to get lost in,_ but followed without comment. He pointed out the facilities, the telecomm unit, and the vidscreen, snapping that last device off irritably when he saw that their arrival had made the news.

T'Pol noticed the icon blinking on the comm. "You have a message," she commented, disappearing into the bedroom to afford him some privacy. He tapped the button to play the recording.

"Jon, it's Arva. Two things. I haven't been able to catch up with Dani and let her know you're coming. If you hear from her, tell her to give me a call. And send me your flight information, so I can pick you up at the airport. Don't rent a car – we've just had four feet of snow in the past week and driving's a nightmare if you're out of practice." She left her contact number, as if he hadn't had it memorized for twenty-five years.

He snorted. To Arva, he'd always be that impulsive teenager she'd bailed out of trouble more times than he could count, one half of a dynamic duo who viewed the world as their personal playground. She'd never see him as the forty-five year old war veteran, a captain made deliberate by the weight of command.

He called for Porthos; might as well hit the road. T'Pol poked her head out of the bedroom. "Porthos appears to be fatigued," she said, the ghost of a smile playing about her lips. Puzzled, he peered through the doorway. The beagle had rediscovered his pallet, a twin to the one on Enterprise, and was curled up, sound asleep, clearly worn out by the million or so kilometers he had traveled in the past several days. Archer leaned against the doorjamb, himself exhausted, and sighed.

"Perhaps it would be better for you to leave in the morning," T'Pol suggested. "You look as if you need a solid night's sleep as well."

Archer knew he should argue, should insist that he not spend a night under the same roof as his First Officer, for appearances' sake. There was a flight leaving for West Virginia in four hours; he could make that with time to spare and arrive at Arva's at – hell, he was so out of it, he didn't know what time it was in any zone. But staying here would be a bad idea, considering the media attention they'd already encountered.

"I'll take the couch," he said wearily. "Do you mind if we order in?"

* * *

April 5, 2155 

For a inquest on a classified matter, the room was packed with people. No press were allowed, of course, but it seemed that every high-ranking member of Starfleet, and all of the relevant government oversight committees had chosen to attend. Unlike the Xindi mission debriefing, which seemed like an intimate family gathering by comparison, this inquiry was held in a one hundred-seat amphitheatre. That was a bad sign. And there was another troubling omen: no Vulcans present. That meant that Starfleet expected the civilians to have a field day with its officers, and didn't want the melee to occur under the noses of non-humans.

The spit-and-polish ensign held the door open for Jon and gestured for the captain to step inside. The ensign had been Jon's escort for the better part of the day, tasked with getting Jon to the hearing on time, and keeping him sequestered from the other witnesses and the general public. It was late in the afternoon now. Commander Tucker's testimony had taken up the entire morning; apparently, Commander T'Pol's had been typically short and to the point. Now it was Jon's turn to answer for decisions he wasn't entirely sure he could defend.

Starfleet had already cleared him officially in the death of Crewman Burrows. Admiral Gardner and Admiral Williams had concluded that nothing Jon had done had led to the fatality. They had not been thrilled with his decision to stay in the Barrens and try to retrieve Quinn Erickson's body, but, since Enterprise had incurred no further losses as a result of Jon's actions, there would be no formal reprimand.

But Emory Erickson was a different story. Starfleet had been pushed, rather against its will, by the United Earth government, to determine whether charges should be brought against the renowned scientist. And Jon had been summoned to testify.

He stepped into the room and straightened his spine. Looking neither to the left nor to the right, he strode down the lengthy center aisle and took his seat at the long table. Directly opposite loomed the tall bench, where the five inquest judges in traditional black robes sat, Chief Judge Rosa Maines, presiding. The microphone rose a few inches, adjusted by remote control to Jon's height. He sat alone; Starfleet had provided the officers access to an "advocate" before the inquest, but discouraged the appearance that the witnesses were actually represented by counsel. Well, it wouldn't be the most hostile audience he'd ever faced. Folding his hands on the table before him, he noted to himself ruefully that at least none of the panel here were likely to toss him across a table during the proceeding.

The initial questioning was handled by one of the friendlies: name, rank, background, some delving into his father Henry's legacy. The questions were formalities only; nobody in the room was unaware that sitting before them was the Hero of the Expanse, the man who had sacrificed his life several times over to save Earth. There were lots of meandering, preachy questions, punctuated by simple "Yes," and "No," responses by the witness. Everyone seemed eager to establish that Starfleet was a good idea, in general.

It was an hour into the testimony before the panel got down to business.

"Captain Archer, what were you told about the mission before you took Enterprise to the Barrens?" asked one panelist, whose name plaque identified him as Randal F. Cruzer, M.D., J.D., LL.M., Ph.D.

Jon chose his words carefully. "Our mission was to escort Dr. Erickson and his daughter, who accompanied him, to an area of space called the Barrens. This area is significant because it is surrounded by a subspace node, a bubble of curved space-time. No stars exist there. It's essentially empty space. Dr. Erickson intended to test a new sub-quantum transporter theory. As I understood it, this new transporter, if successful, would have unlimited range. I assigned my Chief Engineer, Commander Charles Tucker, to assist Dr. Erickson with his experiments."

Dr. Cruzer looked down at his notes. "Commander Tucker testified that you 'ordered' him to work with Dr. Erickson. Is that true?"

"Technically," Jon said mildly, sizing up Cruzer's position immediately, "anything I ask my crew to do could be considered an order. In this case, it was more of a request. Commander Tucker was actually eager to meet and work with Dr. Erickson."

"Indeed. And did this so-called eagerness continue throughout the mission?" Cruzer asked.

"Eventually, Tucker began to have some concerns about the experiment. He thought the energy draw from the engines was inconsistent with the nature of the experiment."

"He did. And how did you address that issue?"

"I asked him to look into it a little more closely."

Cruzer strung out the silence, studying his papers, for a long moment. Then he said, almost amiably, "The Archer family and the Erickson family have a long history of friendship, isn't that true?"

Jon took a deep breath. Here it was, the poison apple. There was no avoiding the bite. "Emory and my father have been – were – friends as long as I can remember. The scientific community isn't that big, and they collaborated occasionally, even though they were working on different projects. Quinn was a good friend of mine, as is Danica."

"And Dr. Erickson took advantage of that friendship, didn't he? He knew that you would not ask too many questions about the so-called experiment he was conducting, isn't that right?"

"I –"

"And he knew that your reputation – this great captain who singlehandedly defeated the Xindi and saved Earth from the Terra Prime threat – would shield him in case the experiment went sour." Cruzer leaned forward a bit and removed his old-fashioned glasses. "He knew that Starfleet would, as it always has, forgive you just about anything. Torture. Murder. Using a starship for personal gain –"

The panel and the audience erupted then, and Jon sat like a stone, suddenly ice-cold. He wished for a second that T'Pol were by his side; he needed and missed her calming presence.

Judge Maines leaned into the microphone, shouting for order, but it took close to four minutes for the commotion to die down. She finally seemed to regain control of the room by sheer force of will. "I remind the panel," said the imposing judge, "that Captain Archer is not the subject of this inquest, and this is not a criminal trial. Focus your questions on the issue at hand, please, and move on." The look of sheer hatred Cruzer shot back guaranteed that the hearing would devolve into a pitched battle in a few minutes.

Before Cruzer could launch into the diatribe for which he was very obviously gearing up, a small, gray-haired man sitting on the extreme left of the panel bench spoke up. "Madame Chair, I believe we can cut to the meat of the matter in short order. If I may?" Even the stately judge seemed intimidated by the man and by the request, and managed only a quick nod in agreement. "By all means, Admiral Sarasota."

Jon sat up straighter. He hadn't bothered to review the names of the panelists before the hearing, and so had not known until this very second that his own former commanding officer, Omar Sarasota, from the disastrous and deadly DX-05 mission, was a part of the inquest. He hadn't recognized the frail, almost insubstantial man, hidden as he was behind the raised bench and the enormous microphone. But he knew that voice, the voice of patience and command, the voice of resolute refusal to panic. He may get hammered for his command decisions, but at least it would come from someone who had himself been in the hot seat, who had himself lost crew members.

"Captain Archer," Sarasota began.

Jon felt like an ensign again as he cleared his throat and answered, "Sir."

"If you had known, going into this mission, about the energy form, which turned out to be Quinn Erickson, what would you have done differently, if anything?"

Jon paused. He'd spent countless sleepless nights pondering this very same question. He wasn't so delusional to think that he would have refused at the outset to try to rescue Quinn. That would have gone against everything he was. He would have taken it as a challenge, to be certain, and he sure as hell would not knowingly have abandoned Quinn. _I will not leave anyone behind, not if I can help it_. That promise would apply equally to his 'brother,' as it did to his crew.

The panel and the audience waited as Jon gathered his thoughts. "Sir. I would have put the ship on tactical alert immediately. I would have directed my Science Officer to scan continually on the frequency last associated with the energy source. I would have had my Tactical Officer and my Chief Engineer manning the transporter in order to isolate the energy before it could penetrate Enterprise's hull.

"I can't say for certain that any of these measures would have prevented anyone being hurt or killed, sir. But my crew is experienced, both in battle and otherwise. They have encountered life forms beyond anything you could imagine. They've faced dangerous situations. If we had known what we were facing from the outset, there is no doubt in my mind that my crew would have been ready to meet the challenge."

"And so, do you believe that, as a result of Dr. Erickson's secrecy and fraud, you and your crew were placed in danger?"

Jon clenched his fists on the table, hating himself, and hating the position he was in now. "Sir, as captain of Enterprise, I take full responsibility for the safety and well-being of my crew."

"That was not the question, Captain," snapped the Chief Judge imperiously.

"I'm sorry, Your Honor."

Sarasota waited patiently until Jon met his gaze. "Captain Archer, do you believe that Dr. Erickson's secrecy and fraud placed you and your crew in danger, resulting in the death of Crewman Burrows?"

A hundred pairs of eyes bored into his back, among them, the two people this panel expected him to devastate with his answer. Two of the only family he had left in the world.

_Sometimes I hate my life._

"Captain." Saratoga's voice was steely, bordering on an order from a superior officer.

"Yes, sir," Jon answered firmly, "yes, I do."

Over the murmur of the spectators, Chief Judge Maines said, "Thank you for your candor, Captain. Your testimony has been very helpful. The panel will also take into account the letter you have submitted on behalf of Ms. Erickson. You're dismissed."

In the front row, Emory sat with his face turned toward the left, scowling. He didn't acknowledge Jon as he walked past. Danica met his eyes, though, her lips pressed tightly together as she tried not to cry. Jon met her gaze, saw the pain in her eyes, and nodded a tiny apology to her before striding up the aisle and out the door.

* * *

February 19, 2156 

If T'Pol had been human, Archer would expect that her lips would be blue. San Francisco in February was clammy and chilly, and for a desert creature like T'Pol, it had to feel like being wrapped in a cold, wet sheet. He jogged up to the coffeehouse, where she waited under the awning, out of the drizzle.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, holding the door for her to enter the steamy shop. "We got to reminiscing and the time got away from me."

"I had expected you to be more than six point four minutes late," T'Pol answered dryly, "given that you hadn't seen the Admiral in quite some time."

"Not to talk to, no," Archer replied, sliding into the dark banquette. "Despite everything, he still makes me feel like a green ensign. It's a shame he's not able to fly anymore."

The waitress hurried over to take their order.

"Coffee with cream, please, and a chamomile tea."

The waitress nodded and was about to turn away, when T'Pol added, "And a piece of your . . . key lime pie."

Archer hid a smile as his First Officer raised an elegant eyebrow, defying him to comment. "Make that two, please," was all he said.

Settling into the leather seat, T'Pol asked, "Was your mission successful? With Admiral Sarasota? "

"I think so." It had been difficult to see his former commanding officer, bent and misshapen after two decades confined to a wheelchair. Sarasota had not retired from Starfleet, however, and was still involved in every high-level project going. If anyone could grant a favor, it was Omar Sarasota, and from their discussion this afternoon, it seemed that he would move heaven and earth to get it done.

"May I ask a personal question, Captain?"

Archer swallowed his mouthful of coffee and slowly lowered his cup. He had a feeling that if they had been in uniform, on Enterprise, this would be a "permission to speak freely, sir?" conversation. Those were never easy. "Fire away, Commander," he said, bracing himself mentally.

"Humans place great importance on forgiveness." She paused, waiting for him to agree.

He wasn't even going to try to guess where this might be going. "That's true. Vulcans don't?"

"No. There is a saying on Vulcan, 'What is, is.' A person's forgiveness does not change an event, nor does the refusal to forgive. One can only accept what has happened and learn from it."

"Vulcans don't hold grudges."

"No." She peered at him over her oversized cup.

"You had a question, T'Pol?" He picked up his own fork.

"Yes. Have you ever forgiven Emory Erickson for the events that occurred in the Barrens?"

_Wow, when she says personal, she really means it_, Archer thought to himself. He shrugged, "As the Vulcans would say, it wouldn't change anything."

"You are not a Vulcan," she pointed out, not for the first time.

He sighed, choosing his words carefully. "It's . . . complicated. If I had asked more questions about the mission, maybe it would have happened differently. Maybe I gave Emory a pass, didn't look closely, because he did mean so much to me." The suspended forkful of pie hit the plate. "He used me, and used Enterprise, and I never expected him to do that. Maybe I should have."

"You're angry at him, still?"

"Yes," Archer ground out. "No. Maybe I'm just angry at myself for not seeing it coming. Emory was always a self-centered bastard, that's nothing new. I mean, look at Dani –" He stopped, and picked up his coffee cup, toying with it. "I'm mad at myself, because I lost a crewmember. And it would be easy to blame it all on Emory, but the fact is, I got caught with my pants down. If I'd been prepared, Burrows would still be alive. And I couldn't even make it right by bringing Quinn home safely." Slouching in his seat a bit, he muttered, "So I guess it really doesn't matter if I forgive Emory or not. As you say, it is what it is."

"Perhaps you should forgive yourself, then," T'Pol remarked.

Archer's mouth twisted. "Twenty years ago, when I was an ensign, I was on a mission that went really, really wrong. We crashed in the Mexican desert, three of us. We lost one crewmate, and the CO and I were banged up pretty good." He laughed mirthlessly. "I just visited the man who was in charge of that mission. The first thing he did was apologize to me. None of it was ever his fault, and if he hadn't kept his head the way he did, we'd all have died. But he apologized anyway."

"And yet _you've_ forgiven _him_," T'Pol prodded.

"Of course. It's complicated," he repeated.

"Apparently," was all she replied.

Six days later, Archer stood on Arva Erickson's property near the small brass monument marking the spot where Earth's first working transporter stood. The brick walkway leading to the monument was swept clean of snow and ice; however Arva might have felt about her late ex-husband, she took scrupulous care of his legacy. He could see through the kitchen window of the old farm house, her movements meticulous as she packed a large carry bag with food for his journey back to Enterprise later that day. From the number of containers he had seen strewn across the table, she clearly thought the trip would take weeks, not hours.

She'd done little else but stuff him with food since he'd arrived. He wouldn't tell Chef any of the disparaging things Arva had said about the quality of the fare aboard Enterprise; in her view, the man should be fired for letting his captain wither away to such thinness.

Archer wasn't inclined to complain or to set her straight. She was a great cook.

He moved closer to the plaque, reading the inscription. The date of Emory's death had been added already; on closer inspection, he noticed that Quinn's statistic had been changed, as well. Instead of "2139," it now read "2154," to reflect those few seconds he had been conscious on the transporter pad.

_Have you ever forgiven Emory Erickson for the events that occurred in the Barrens?_ He could still hear T'Pol's question in his ear, one of the reasons it had taken him nearly a week to venture out to this place. He leaned forward and place a bare hand on the plaque, made warm to the touch by the ice melting mechanism inside it, and said, "I forgive you, Emory."

Footsteps crunched behind him, approaching over the crust of icy snow on the lawn, rather than on the walkway.

"How about me," asked a familiar voice, "do you forgive me, too?" He turned to see Dani standing there, dressed in a giant peacoat and big clunky snow boots. She stepped up to him and tilted her head. "No more avoiding each other," she commented.

"Deal," Archer agreed, swallowing hard.

She waited for a moment. "You haven't answered my question, have you? Am I forgiven, too?"

In response, he grabbed her in a full-body hug, lifting her off her feet. He set her down, looked in her face, then embraced her again, a bit more gently. "I've missed you, Dani."

"Well?"

He snorted. She could be such a brat sometimes. "Yes. Actually, no, you're not, because there's nothing to forgive."

She cast an unreadable look at the monument, then slipped her hand into the crook of Archer's elbow and tugged. "Come on, it's freezing out here." They walked toward the house, but then veered off down the path leading to the stream, Archer's favorite place.

After a long silence, Dani said, "I was tempted to avoid you for a little longer."

"Why didn't you?"

"I encountered that formidable force you call a First Officer." At Archer's glance, she continued. "I went by your apartment in San Fran a couple of days ago, but you'd already left to visit Mom. Commander T'Pol invited me in for tea and we had a nice chat. We talked about a lot of things, and she told me you planned on heading back to Enterprise soon. I thought about just waiting until you left, but she's pretty persistent in that logical Vulcan way. Plus, she kind of called me a coward, although not in so many words."

"You really haven't lived until you've been insulted politely by a Vulcan," Archer remarked.

"Hmm. Plus, I got a very interesting call last night. From the Department of Interspecies Programs at Starfleet."

"Really," Archer said.

Dani smiled. "Yes. They wanted to know if I would be interested in participating in a mission to a certain colony in deep space, a planet called EC-Four-Twelve." Archer remained silent. "You might know it, since you discovered it. It's a colony of humans and Skagarans, in what used to be the Expanse. It appears that some of the population wants to stay and continue the settlement there. So Starfleet is sending an envoy team to help them set up a more modern infrastructure."

"Right," Archer said, "they were kind of stuck in the Old West. That sounds like a terrific opportunity, Dani."

"Mm-hmm. You know, after the inquest, they revoked my father's privileges and prohibited him from even stepping on Starfleet property, even though they decided against formal charges." She peered up at him. "So, it couldn't have been any of his old contacts who set this up for me." More silence from Archer. "And it's not like there's a shortage of people wanting to go into deep space."

"That's true."

Dani stopped walking. "You know, this is exactly why I beat the pants off you every time we play poker. You are the _worst_ bluffer in the whole world."

"Oh, I've gotten better at it. You'd be surprised," Archer retorted.

"Yeah, you're not that good. I can still read you like a book." She reached up to kiss his cold cheek. "Thank you, Jon. I don't know what kind of favors you called in for me, but . . . I can't even believe it! Starfleet wants me to teach modern engineering concepts and help them plan, but I'll also get to study the culture and – you're laughing at me!"

Archer chuckled. "I honestly have never seen you so excited over anything before. You're finally going for what you want." He sobered a little. "I am so proud of you." He watched her eyes stray toward the monument, now a shadow in the distance. "Emory would be proud of you, too. _This_ is what you were meant to do, Dani. What you've always wanted. It just took a while to get there." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Starfleet jacket. "Let's go inside. I have a flight to catch, and I'm sure your mom's fixing to feed me again before I leave."

Dani smiled. "You'll have to come and visit me on EC-Four-Twelve, in your big, shiny ship, Admiral Archer."

"You got it, Ambassador Erickson."

* * *

January 3, 2157 

Archer's comm. beeped, and he put his book face down on his bunk to go answer it. "Yes."

"Captain," Hoshi said, "I have your connection."

He smiled to himself. "Thanks, Hoshi, I appreciate it." He tapped off the ship's comm. and keyed in a different code. "Hey, Danica."

He had to admit, she looked happy, even in the low, artificial light of the heavy cruiser. "I'm so glad you called, Jon. We're going to leave spacedock in about two hours."

"How are you feeling?"

She beamed at him. "I can't wait to get started. The crew seems nice and everybody's just raring to go." Archer sent a silent, heartfelt thanks to Admiral Saratoga, and hoped that his old CO would consider his karmic debt for the DX-05 debacle paid in full. "I guess I'll be able to drop you a line as soon as we pass Echo Two, I hope you get it."

"Oh, somehow I think you'll be a little too busy to write letters for a while, Dani," Archer laughed. "But I'll know where to find you."

Dani turned her head to acknowledge someone off screen, then said to Archer, "I've got to go. All hands on deck, so to speak. Be safe, Jon. I'll see you out there."

"Safe journey, Dani. I'll be waiting."

He stared at the darkened screen for a moment, then snapped it off. _Nope, no wonder at all that we turned out the way we did_. He rose from his chair, feeling the familiar vibration of his father's engine under his feet, and nodded to his beagle. "Come on, Porthos, let's go for a walk."

_It took a while for her to figure out _

_That she could run, _

_But when she did, she was _

_Long gone, long gone. _

_- Keith Urban, "Stupid Boy" _


End file.
